The Onigiri Heartbeat Protocol

Thump. Thump-thump.
My pulse is a frantic drummer in my chest, echoing against the glass of this convenience store window. I’m holding an onigiri—simple rice and salt—but it feels like a sacred relic because you were the one who pointed it out to me when I looked lost between rows of plastic-wrapped meals.
I can feel your gaze from three steps away. It's not just looking; it's *sensing*. My skin prickles, a sudden rush of warmth flooding my neck and cheeks as if an invisible current has just been switched on. The air around us thickens with the scent of rain-damp concrete and sterile fluorescent lights, yet I only breathe you.
I take a bite, but barely taste it; all I can hear is the rhythmic surge in my ears. My fingertips are tingling, almost electric where they brush against the wrapper. Every time our eyes meet through these reflections, my breath hitches—a sharp, jagged intake that leaves me lightheaded and wanting.
This isn't just lunch. It’s a physiological takeover. The way you lean in to ask if it tastes good... I can feel my heart skip a beat entirely, then double back with an intensity that threatens to crack my ribs open. You are the city’s quietest revolution, and I am completely surrendered.

Editor: Heartbeat Monitor